


Him

by TheTalkingSandwich



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Artist Gerard Way, Attempt at Humor, Criminal Frank Iero, Danger Days Gerard, Dominance, Fluff, Forced Crossdressing, Forced Oral Sex, Frank hates Mikey, Jealousy, M/M, Mafia Frank Iero, Mafia Ray Toro, Mikey hates Frank, Original Character(s), Past Relationship(s), Possessive Behavior, Smut, Submission, Violent Sex, anger issues, dom frank, light blood and gore, mafia, slight stockholm, sub gerard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-08-19 17:44:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8219620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTalkingSandwich/pseuds/TheTalkingSandwich
Summary: Gerard Way has always been one for detail. Especially when it comes to escaping reality, and how lonely and deprived of love he is.To escape how lonely he is, Gerard conjures up a daydream where he's living in a comfy apartment, has a stable job, and lives with the love of his life. He's hoping that eventually, everything pans out just as it does in his daydream. He knows it isn't real, and knows that He doesn't exist- will there ever be a time when he won't have to use his imagination to be in love?Of course, but nothing goes according to plan.





	1. Chapter 1

Details were important. 

They were, you could argue, the foundation of every idea built. Every thought, and every ambition; they were all built on just that- detail. You couldn't just plan a trip, nor could you think ahead of time to any moment where details weren't as important as they've always been. It was those details- the small insignificant details- that proved both a burden, and a blessing. Details made things appear more realistic, because there was no point in pretending that they didn't exist. The issue may be that they make life harder, because they raise unrealistic expectations, and once a single detail was lost or impossible to replicate- the entire idea collapsed on itself, like dominoes sitting atop a table. 

At least, this was what Gerard was trying to explain, with one hand gripping his hair and the other gesticulating wildly. "I think ahead, and you can't do that without planning everything! I plan my future and there's nothing abnormal about that."

"Yes Gerard, but you can't blame yourself if something is almost impossible. It's not healthy. Things don't always have to be so complicated, sometimes things go wrong and that's okay" the brunette countered with her brows furrowed, "you don't have to think ahead so much, because you depend so much on the future that you don't focus on the now. Why don't you try and break the habit? Perhaps try and do something that you haven't planned ahead or-" 

"No! Without a plan, I'm lost" he sighed in defeat. "If I don't plan ahead, there isn't any structure."

The brunette gripped her pen lightly, scribbling something down whilst her eyes flickered from the distressed man sitting opposite her, to the notepad she held in her lap. "Gerard, that isn't a plan though, is it? It's a- a dream. A- a daydream" the stuttered, testing the words on her tongue without wanting to offend. 

"I'd say that constitutes as a plan" he pouted, not quite understanding her point. 

Bernadette was a pale woman, with sharp blue eyes and dark, glossy hair. She was a larger woman, with a much fuller figure, but it fit her well. Gerard wasn't entirely sure why he was paying her, because as much as she tried to help- well, that was the problem. She didn't help.  
It was his brother who had suggested therapy in the first place, and at first he'd been reluctant because he didn't understand how speaking to someone who wasn't himself, would understand the way he thought his way through life. At first, the idea of paying such a large sum of money didn't bother him so much, but after his bank account started to drop little by little- he often found himself asking why he still paid for a service that simply didn't benefit him.

Bernadette's eyes glanced towards the clock, placed patronisingly over his head. "We have a little over five minutes, Gerard. Perhaps you'd like to share this dream with me? You've been coming here for almost a year now, and as much as we like to discuss it- I haven't actually had the pleasure of hearing it." There was a hopeful twinkle in her eyes, as she unconsciously leant forward just a bit, pen grasped between her fingers. 

"I- I don't-" the redhead murmured, wringing his hands as his tongue darted out to wet his lips nervously. It was something personal and exciting- would it have the same effect if he shared it with someone else? "I- what if I don't enjoy it anymore? What if I tell you, and it isn't so personal anymore. Then it isn't really a daydream, because i won't be the only one knowing what I'm thinking about." 

"It's ideal that we make sure that you can differentiate between that world, and this world, Gerard. We all daydream, but letting it take over your life is doing you no good. You said that you had a cat? Was it a cat?"

The redhead looked into his lap dreamily, "no. It's a dog, I'm allergic to cats." He knew what she had done, she had teased it out of him, but now that he had started- he couldn't stop. "I don't live anywhere fancy, it's a shitty apartment in a shitty block in the centre of Newark. It's run down but it works. I worked in this diner, it wasn't a fancy place or anything- just uh, warm I guess? It was never packed out in the mornings, but come four o'clock it was like you couldn't breathe in a place so big. There were kids coming out of school, and business men taking off their ties and unbuttoning the tops of their shirts- it always bought out the best in people. A-anyway, I always worked the night shift on a Wednesday. There was this- this guy. He was, God- he was beautiful" he trailed off, the corners of his lips tugging upwards as he stared into his lap. 

Bernadette was a little taken back; Gerard had never mentioned his sexuality in the 11 months he'd been seeing her. Every time she saw him, she could tell he was eccentric and intelligent, but he spoke like a broken man; he got frustrated with himself, and his lips were always upturned in a constant frown. It was strange seeing him so at peace, as though all he was saying had actually happened. She knew that wasn't the case though, and so she sat as still as she could, waiting for him to continue.

"He was a musician, I think. He'd come in at 6:30 sharp, and order a large black coffee- sometimes he'd order a pastry, nothing spectacular. The other waitresses used to tease me all the time whenever he walked in, and he totally knew but he would just smile at me like there weren't three waitresses giggling behind him. I never really spoke to him beyond that, only sometimes would we make small talk as he sat at the counter waiting for his coffee. Sometimes he'd call me little pet names, like 'sugar' or 'darling' and I always thought it was because I'm so...feminine" he whispered, as though he were ashamed of himself. "I never really thought he was interested, until I went to clean his table one day" he started giggling. 

"Why Gerard? What did he do?" Bernadette raised a single brow, her pen working furiously across the paper with a familiar scratching sound. 

"He left his number on one of the napkins. I- I didn't think it was for me, why would he be interested in someone like me?"

"Did you call him?"

"No"

"Why not?"

"Because I thought he was making fun of me" he gushed out, then glanced around like someone else had said it. "I thought he was just joking around, but he came in the next day at the same time and ordered the same thing. But he didn't smile at me or anything which was weird." 

"Was he upset because you didn't call him?" 

Gerard nodded jerkily, "yeah, I guess I was just scared. When I went over to him he asked me why I didn't call him, and I told him that I didn't think he liked me."

"And what did he say?"

The redhead let out a hearty laugh, "he made me write my number on his arm- well, the part that didn't have any tattoos."

"He has tattoos?"

"Mhm," Gerard hummed, scratching at his nose. "He has them all over. His hands and his neck and his chest and his arms. He has his nose pierced too, I like it. We live in his shitty apartment now though, with Professor Xavier. I wanted a husky but our landlord won't let us have a dog." 

Bernadette scribbled down another scrambled set of words; usually Gerard would try and follow the pen with his eyes, but he was too far gone to pay any attention. "So professor Xavier is your dog?"

"Yeah, he's a pug. He was cheap because his left eye is milky, I think he was born like that. We love him though, even though I don't really like having him on the bed, but He always wins me over."

"He?"

Gerard frowned "the guy I love." 

It was strange she supposed, but perhaps part of his imagination hadn't come up with a name. Perhaps he paid so much attention to their dog, and their home, and everything in between that he hasn't come up with a name for this mystery figure. 

She had decided not to question it just yet.

"So tell me more about your home life with him" the brunette sighed, realising that they had gone over the hour, but they'd actually made some progress today. 

"Well, it's like any other apartment I guess. It's basic, without a garden or balcony; we have enough money to get by with some luxury, but nowhere near enough for anywhere better. Our erm, our bedroom has white walls- well, off white, like hessian. Our bed used to be in the centre but He likes to watch the rain, so we pushed it up against the wall beside the window. We only really argue about trivial things, like when I leave Bobby pins all over the place, or when he rearranges the CD's because he doesn't think they look right. He loves me and I love him and that's all that matters." 

"Gerard" she breathed, biting her lip in thought. "What's his name, Gerard?"

Like that, his head snapped up and his eyes glossed over. "Why do you need his name?"

"It's a bit strange referring to him as 'he', so I'd like to know his name. He sounds like a catch" she gave him a weary smile, as though to calm him down. 

"You don't need his damn name" he scoffed, breaking out of his trance and folding his arms against his chest with his lips pursed. "You think I'm fucking crazy, don't you." It was less of a question and more of a statement. 

"No, Gerard I don't think that at all!" She rushed, placing her pad down on the floor beside her feet; "Gerard I just want to know his name."

"He doesn't have a fucking name because he isn't fucking REAL" he snapped, his eyes wide and scorning "I know he isn't real okay? I know I sound like I'm losing my mind, but I have nothing to live for so what's wrong with dreaming about any other place than this place! What's wrong with closing my eyes and wanting a life that I'll probably never have?!" 

Bernadette glanced towards the clock again, and that seemed to have broken every piece of self restraint the redhead had. 

"You know what? I'll just leave, you obviously don't want me here. Every single time I come here, you look at that fucking clock" he darted out of his chair and pointed towards the innocent object with a elongated finger, accusing and unapologetic, "like you can't wait to get me out of this place! Well I'll do you a favour and just go." 

With that, he turned on his heel- snatching his jean jacket that sat over the back of his chair- and marched off in direction of the door. 

"Same time next week, Gerard?" Bernadette offered, just as he'd placed one foot over the threshold.

"Yeah, whatever" he murmured, scowling as he scurried off. They both knew he'd be back next week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aye lads, I've decided to try writing again, and I'm fairly excited about this one!  
> This chapter isn't necessarily part of the storyline, but it is really important so stick around for the next chapter, because that shit is fucking LIT


	2. Enter the unprofessional art critic

"Come on then, what happened?"

"Nothing."

"You're sitting here with a face like a sour lemon, asshole, of course something is wrong." Mikey droned, watching his brother pout at the canvas stood in front of him, listening over their conversation with deaf ears. "She's a nice lady, maybe just learn to trust her a bit."

"She thinks I'm a loon, Mikes. I'd just rather not talk about it okay? It's stressing me out and if I don't get this finished, Mr Camacho is going to roast my ass like a thanks giving turkey." Gerard groaned, giving it his third attempt at mixing a green that he was pretty sure was impossible to mix.

Mikey barked out a laugh, lifting his feet off the desk and going to stand up, "I'm sure he'd like that, he's always fuckin' staring at you. Not sure why though, I'm the pretty one."

"Yeah if walking toothpicks constitute as pretty nowadays" the elder murmured, ducking his head when his brother swatted at him playfully. "Anyway, get going, I'll see you at the exhibition tonight. I'm not going to get this finished with you here."

"You love me really" Mikey gave him a tight lipped smile, before gliding off and out the door.

Gerard was no stranger to his brother turning up unannounced, because he wasn't exactly your everyday artist. He'd successfully used his internship at Cartoon Network to catapult him into the artistic world, and he was now working alongside famous artists in local galleries, that were scattered around New Jersey like autumn leaves. He supposed it was a dream that had in fact come true without having to actually plan anything; his therapist reminded him of this every visit, and despite her best interest at heart, it irritated him to no end.

Tonight he was ordered to complete an artistic piece built of contrasting colours, and sharp lines that twisted into a beautifully warped chestnut tree; colours burst from its branches in thick wafts of red and grey- like smoke rising from a chimney. The tree itself sat upon a mottled hill, with a wintery city sitting behind it. The buildings sat high, watching over the city with unseeing eyes, while snowflakes suspended from loft cables that swung from one building to another. The people were almost invisible, thinning and icy where they could barely be seen from just over the top of the hill.  
He knew Mr Camacho would find fault with it; he was ordered to present the painting with a sense of ambiguity. There weren't meant to be any details, just a mass of colour and a space for an artists individual interpretation. He'd readily agreed, of course, but he knew that he was incapable of doing such a thing; details were important, and if there were no details, then his signature scribbled in the left hand corner of the canvas did not belong there.  
With a resigned exhale, Gerard licked at his lips as he carefully placed the brush down on the craft table beside the canvas. He touched a red-stained thumb to his mobile, watching as the time flicked from the screen; he had around an hour before he had to leave, so he plugged the device into the wall, and checked that it was charging before making his way to the bathroom.  
It was going to be a long night.  
***  
"Er, Gee?" Mikey whispered into his brother's ear, sending a tight lipped smile to the guests over his shoulder, "what the fuck are we looking at?"

  
"Can't you at least pretend to appreciate anything? The two naked dudes over there, the ball of pink yarn on that table, the-"

  
Mikey shoved his brother in the side, revelling in the sharp squeak he got in response. "All jokes aside man, I have no idea what to say to these people about any of this stuff." The two began to subconsciously move around the room, turning their noses at a couple of random pieces centred towards the front of the gallery. They stopped at a particular piece that appeared to have guests in awe; Mikey was just about to make a crude joke about the phallic shape of the object when he turned to see his brother stunned too, "oh god, you're digging this too?!"

"Mikey" the elder hissed, "do you have any idea how hard this is to achieve?"

The younger shrugged, urging his brother to continue.

"It's decalcomania. It's where the artist uses a blotting process where paint is squeezed between two surfaces to create a mirror image. I've tried before, but I don't really have the patience." He looked at the work for a second longer, before turning to see his brother eyeing the piece critically.

"Looks like a dick to me" he breathed out after a moment, earning a couple of disgusted scoffs in his direction.

Gerard was just about to scold him, before a rough hand touched his shoulder and the owner of said hand murmured his name that sent chills down his spine, like snowflakes. The redhead turned, forcing a smile onto his face as David Camacho grinned back at him- cracked lips curling over sets of yellowing teeth.

"Why Gerard, don't you look ravishing tonight" the shorter man beamed, sliding a hand down the redheads arm, "the same cannot be said for that painting though, can it, Gerard." The man nodded politely towards Mikey, who had his jaw squared menacingly, and began to pull the artist to side. Not creepy at all for a married man.

Gerard combed his hands through his hair worriedly, his words falling out of his mouth and tripping over one another, "sir, I can explain- I can, I just, I did what you said but it didn't come together-" he rushed, as the shorter man shushed him, and began to pull him towards the very piece he was about to get slaughtered for. There was only one other

guest standing before it, but they had their back to the two. "Sir I-"

"I pay you to paint what is asked of you. This" he extended a stubby index finger towards the canvas, framed with exquisite gold, "is not what you were asked to paint. Chestnut tree- check, city- check. I'm not quite sure what all those little blobs are and why they're there though."

"They're people, sir" Gerard hung his head. "A-and trees, and all the little things you'd usually see in the city, sir."

Mr Camacho eyed the artist, taking in his high cheekbones and exposed clavicles; he folded his arms tightly across his chest and kept his voice clear, yet undeniably feral, "if you do this again, not only will you be fired- you'll never paint for another sorry soul in this city again. I can't sell this to the buyer when it has exactly what he asked you to avoid!" the brunette hissed, before he softened again. He unfolded his arms and held his arm out, trailing a finger lightly across Gerard's jaw, "you're just lucky you're pretty, or I woulda fired you long ago. Last chance, Gerard" he finished sternly, before retracting his hand back and striding away to some place Gerard couldnt see.

The artist hadn't moved from where he stood, and kept his head down towards the expensive parquet. His eyes had glossed over, and he had only kept himself from crying in fear that he'd have to do his mascara over. With a heavy sniff, Gerard raked his hair back again, letting it fall back into his face as he turned towards the canvas; it was horrid. He'd been so proud of it this morning, and he'd gone as far as to take three different photos from different angles, and posted all three to his Facebook page.  
The only thing he would have faulted was the golden frame, that didn't really sit well with the colours on the canvas. The gold was too rich for the reds, and the carvings too innocent for the jagged branches of the chestnut tree.

He couldn't quite understand what he'd done wrong, nor could he understand why someone would order him to leave out every significant detail. You could have mistaken the snowy backdrop for mist, if he hadn't placed snowflakes in the air; you could have considered a different era if not for the blur of yellow taxi's and people, and you never have guessed that it was around Christmas time if not for the faint bulbs that sat around the streets, glistening blue and red.

What was a painting without detail?

"Ya know, I think it's actually pretty good" came a thick, Jersey accent that caused the redhead's heart to leap out of his chest. He must've jumped noticeably if the small chuckle he got in response was anything to go by, "whoever asked for a paintin' with no detail is probably brain dead or sumin'."

"Y-yeah well, that was what they wanted and that's not what they got" the artist blushed, keeping his eyes locked with the canvas in hope that his guest would leave him to mope alone.

"You do people? Like, portraits and whatnot?"

The redhead bowed his head, shrugging a little, "I can do pretty much anything I set my mind to."

The guest 'hmm'd' lightly, taking a step closer to Gerard in his peripheral vision. "All the colours and shit, t's cool" he commented.

"Colours and shit?"

"Well, I'm no art major-"

Gerard scoffed, "really? I would _never_   have guessed."

"But I'm not blind, and m' sure your boss ain't either, huh? D'you always let him touch you up like that, like a piece of meat?"

"Hey!" Gerard snapped vehemently, turning to face the 'guest' with as much anger as he could muster in one turn- but he stopped short. His guest wasn't a guest- well, he was- but not a 'guest' guest. In fact, he wasnt sure what kind of guest this guest was.  
He was short, but it wasn't strange or unappealing like it was on Mr Camacho; he wore a washed out, sleeveless, Rancid shirt- revealing scrawls and stems of ink on each arm, from shoulder to fingertips- with too-tight jeans and a pair of beaten up converse with sharpie drawn on the sides. He was still turned to face the painting, but his head was bent towards Gerard, with his lips curling into a smirk; he certainly looked like an asshole, but a very attractive one at that. His skin wasn't pale, nor was it tanned- it was somewhere lost in between the two, with an olive type complexion that was smooth and looked warm to the touch. His jaw was sharp and was eccentuated by a pair of plump, pink lips- the bottom adorned by a silver hoop; his right nostril was pierced too but his face wasnt cluttered, it was pretty. His hair wasn't anything spectacular, it just curled around his ears and sat just below the nape of his neck.

The thing that struck Gerard though, no matter how overly cliche it was, were his eyes. They were hazel, and bright and beautiful and framed with thick lashes that made them look feminine and unreal. They were orbs, that held Gerard's stare with a perfectly arched brow.

"Might want ta' take a photograph, it'll last longer, darlin'" he drawled, pushing his hair back slightly. He flexed his tattooed fingers, and pushed them through his jet black hair again. Gerard was entranced.

With a sudden realisation, Gerard shook his head in disgust, "you're doing that on purpose, stop it."

"Stop what? I ain't doing anything" pipsqueak barked an amused laugh, removing his hand.

"You know exactly what you're doing and don't talk about me or my job like you know me, okay?" Gerard sassed, cocking his hip and folding his arms as he stared the attractive man down.

The man bit at the hoop in his bottom lip, before releasing it with a sigh, "ya know, you should really tell that asshole to stop touchin' you up like that, man."

"And what makes you think he'll listen to me?"

"Tell him yer' boyfriend will fuck him up" the shorter man smirked, quirking his brow, challenging.

"Boyfriend? I don't know any boyfriend who'll beat up a guy who's shoes are more expensive than everything i own. I can't do anything about it, so I have no choice" the redhead sneered, shaking his head as he turned away.

"Alright, tell him _I'll_ fuck him up then." Gerard didn't dare turn around, but he could hear the light footsteps following behind him, "you tell him that if he ever touches you like he owns you again, _I'll_ kick his goddamn teeth in" the Jersey twang whispered venomously, dangeously close to the artist's ear.

"You won't do it. He's rich, and powerful and he's everything you're not. He will ruin you."

"Oh _Gerard_ ," he purred, coming closer where his breath fluttered against the redhead's ear, "you think I ain't gonna do it? I'll put him through so much pain, he won't even fuckin' look at you the same way- and if he does, i'll fuckin' kill 'im."

"Y-you don't even know me" the artist squealed back, quiet enough that nobody could hear them.

"Well," the man chuckled, "I do now, doll."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to upload chapter two today, because I know that chapter one isn't exactly captivating- even if it is hella important. I'm not sure how long this is going to be, nor do I have a specific plan, but let's hope it isn't a complete shitstorm, yeah?  
> Also, apologies if there are any spelling errors, just let me know


	3. It's always raining in Jersey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His boss isn't really alright, is he?

It was a long, excrutiatingly boring weekend for Gerard.

It was rare that he could work at home, but Starfish Art Studios not only created the art- it built the pedestal for it. This meant that where he would create the art for a potential client, he would also be expected to handle gallery management, in a cubicle smaller than his bedroom closet. He worked from 9am to 6pm, and got home around 6:30. The pay was good enough, and Mr Camacho's office was relatively far away from where he sat so he didn't always have to deal with borderline sexual harassment everyday.

Gerard scribbled furiously, his pen scratching over the paper so loud that the tip was bound to go straight through anytime soon; Mrs Greenage just wouldn't stop talking though, and it was practically impossible to get her to slow down. "Alright, so you wanted three pieces by Monday but I'm not sure we can get that in the gallery by thursday, Mrs Greenage-" he cringed, her voice tight and pitchy where he held the wired telephone between his shoulder and his ear. "Yes, I understand, but Le Meur gallery require adequate paperwork for pieces that are being sent abroad for comissioning-" she began again, oblivious to Gerard quietly panicking at his desk, as his hands scrambled to find a pen to replace the one that had just ran out.

He 'uh huh'd' and 'yeah i understand'd' where it was necessary, but none of this was going down without a goddamn pen. A sudden, urgent tapping beside him snapped him out of his ink frenzy, and he swivled around to lock eyes with his friend, Ryan. The two sat there gesticulating at each other widly for a moment, until Gerard had finally had enough. "Mrs Greenage, I apologise but i'm going to have to get back to you- yes, i'll call Le Meur and- yes of course, no need to fret ma'am- no no, alright i'll do that, apologies, goodbye- for fucks sake Ryan, this better be good" he whined as he threw the telephone back onto the base. He unwound the coloured scarf from around his neck, and too, threw it carelessly onto his desk as he slouched in his chair.

"Gerard, Gee- have you seen Mr Camacho?" Ryan gushed, eyes wide and anxious "have you seen him since the showing on friday?"

The redhead shook his head with a dismissive yawn, "uh, no i went straight home. I can only stand that man for so long.." he grumbled, scratching at his stomach as he frowned at Ryan's frantic expression.

"Oh my God, Gerard- he was attacked! I thought you would have known!" Ryan squealed, flailing his hands like a bird without flight.

"Uh, why would you think I'd know?"

"Because he obviously likes you" the smaller man rolled his eyes, before shaking his head again, "he looks so bad, dude. So, so bad."

"Wait, he got attacked on friday? This friday?" Gerard breathed, leaning forward so his albows dug into the flesh above his knees.

Ryan rolled his eyes for a second time now, folding his legs as he pushed his chair further into Gerard's cubicle, "apparently some guy beat him up real bad, and honestly? I doubt it was just one guy, he looks like he was in a car accident! It was after the showi-" Ryan paused, seemingly along with the rest of the office.

The employees behind him, Lindsey and Quinn too, turned and stared towards the front of the room. The redhead turned slowly, following their gaze and let his own eyes survey the disaster that was his broken boss; in fact, 'broken' seemed to be an understatement.

He moved slow and unsteady, as though he were about to fall at any moment and if there were any sudden movements, his body would crumble and shatter like glass. That wasnt the worst of it though: a visible spot of hair was missing near his temple, where there appeared to be major stitching, and his face was scabby and bent. The blood had obviously begun to scab over, but the damage was done. His lip was swollen and cut open, and his left eye was swallowed by inidgo and cerise; his eyelids were drowsy, and the one that had been damaged hung down like a cheap accessory, mocking and sore. His right arm was held to his chest in a sling, but the ends seemed frayed and soaked with blood- as though there was another injury to his arm that needed to be bandaged again. Mr Camacho didn't bother turn to his employees, but he had certainly noticed the silence surrounding him; usually he would smell fresh coffee brewing, and hear telephones and murmurs- the occasional laugh that he never let slide. The smell of coffee was there, but it was dull and barely bitter.

Eventually, he had limped his way across to his door and attempted to push it open with his shoulder with a hiss; as he turned, it was evident that there had been more damage to the back of his head, as another slither of scalp gave way to a longer line of gnarly stitching. He shoved at the door again, embarrassed at his struggle. Gerard watched in horror, gazing around as everyone stood in silence- some standing to get a better angle. He stood silently, ignoring Ryan's barely audible hiss of 'Gerard sit down!' and left his cubicle as his boots clacked against the flooring.

He moved forward, darting a look back at Ryan before touching a soft hand to his boss' shoulder. Mr Camacho tensed, his eyes quivering and becoming foggy as they came to rest on the gorgeous artist; he backed away, not even daring to cry out as his bruised hip came into contact with the water dispenser behind him.

"G-get away from me" he croaked. Gerard reached out again but his boss, usually dominating and powerful, cried out as though he were in pain, "I said get away from me! I- i wont touch you again, I swear" he muttered. He began to shake, involuntary shivers and hiccups leaving his body as he shuffled back further, "please" he whispered, so quiet that Gerard had to read his lips as they danced around the words "I won't touch you, please don't make him hurt me" he gurgled, tears flowling freely down his cheeks.

A littany of giggles bubbled up from somewhere in the office, followed my more and more until practically everyone coughed and let out silent wheezes; the artist glanced down and his throat closed up in a heartbeat. The man had pissed himself, right there, in his ironed slacks, seeping into the carpet like it had always been a part of the material. The trail ran down his legs, which quaked violently with every passing second. He was so scared, that he hadn't even noticed.

"I didn't- I don't know what you're talking about" Gerard choked, shaking his head as he went to reach out again, but thought twice "let me help you."

"NO" his boss screamed, his mouth left open in a grimace as he slouched in on himself "p-please don't let him hurt me again, I won't t-t-touch you or l-look at you i swear Gerard, your art i-is good it's s-so so good" he muttered more to himself than anyone else. "So g-good your art, please- don't let him."

The man continued to whimper, like a wounded animal on the side of the road. Gerard's own eyes had brimmed with tears, but he refused to let them fall; he moved forward silently, ignoring his boss' pained whine at his movement, and curled his fingers around the doorknob, before pushing it open and walking back to his cubicle in silence.

He'd heard the office door close with a familiar 'click', and neglected the anxious looks his employers sent his way. His sat back at his chair, his jaw clenched and his joints tense.

"Gee? What the hell just happened?" Ryan breathed, as though the weight of his tongue was stopping him from breathing. "Gee?" he asked again, to no prevail.

The redhead moved his scarf to the side, logging into his computer and his slender fingers tapped away at the keyboard, unaware of anything but his own pure rage. His legs trembled in both fear, and vehemence, as he searched through his files, and searched for the guest list for the gallery opening on friday- two hazels eyes and a twisted smirk scorching into his head as his fingers hammered away at the keys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on and off with this chapter- thoughts?


	4. Didn't take you long, doll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why me?"
> 
> "Because you intrigue me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so I'm a little concerned that this 'Him' character might be a little confusing for some of you?  
> Just to clarify that when I refer to 'Him' or 'He', specifically when Gerard get's home, it's referring to the fraction of Gerard's imagination. In the first chapter, his therapist picks up on how lonely he is and how he manages to tackle that but conjuring up this imaginary lover! That's Him, in case you guys were wondering what the fuck was going on!! I've put those parts in bold so you know.
> 
> It's great to be writing again!

Pulling the keys out of the ignition sharply, didn't mean that Gerard wasn't convulsing with anxiety, nor did kicking the car door shut with a 'thump', and striding towards the front door with somewhat hurried movements. That last part may have had something to do with the rain, which was thundering down and hitting the pavement until each drop crashed like glass fragments.

Mr Camacho hadn't left his office for the majority of the day, and every attempt at making contact was met with a slew of curses and threats- and understandably so. Ryan hadn't pestered Gerard for much longer, but that didn't mean that everyone else took caution around him too; he was accosted in the break room twice, and once in the print room as he continued his forgotten quest for a pen that didnt stutter halfway through a sentence. He had hesitated outside Mr Camacho's office before he left, but immediately decided that he wouldn't want to see him either, especially after pissing himself among sixteen colleagues who couldn't stand him.

 

Pushing against each concrete step with the sole of his worn converse, Gerard ground his teeth in agitation at the thought of someone being beaten so mercilessly at his feet; there was no doubt that he was wrong about who could have committed such a sickening act against someone who honestly didn't deserve as much. It was even more concerning that he hadn't placed anyone on the guest list that he wasnt aware of personally, nor had anyone else at the office. All guests were entrepeneurs, or artists, or anything between those two thresholds.

How the guy had gotten in, Gerard wasn't entirely sure, but he had deciated the rest of his day into finding out.

He'd been asking around, and had even managed to get ahold of the security company in charge of the evening itself to see if he could get his hands on any type of security footage; of course, he could not do so without making an accusation, and that was just out of the question.

He knew who it was, but he didn't really _know_.

Curling a stray strand of red behind his ear, Gerard fumbled for his keys, burried at the bottom of his pockets, before wedging them out of the tight space and into the rusty keyhole. He wrinkled his nose at the smell he was greeted by- something oily, like takeout or fries; the redhead slipped his shoes off with the opposing foot and continued towards his bedroom, shrugging off his tight fitting trench coat along the way.

His apartment wasn't too big, nor was is too small- it was just empty. The cupboards were bare, as was the fridge because when He moved in, he'd need the extra space. He'd purchased a king sized matress too, because when **He** moved in, it was too much of a pain to part with the old one. In fact, everything was built for two people; the landlord had asked why he'd needed such a large space, and he'd always told him that **He** would be living with Gerard soon, so it'd be pretty illogical to aquire for just one person, right?

Shaking his hair out, Gerard peeled the soaked shirt off of his skin- the jeans required far more effort- and began changing into a pair of washed out batman pajama bottoms, and a grey tshirt. The pajamas had come in packs of two: batman, and robin. **He'd** wear the Robin ones when **He** moved in with Gerard. Gerard knew **He** would probably have wanted the Batman ones, but since Gerard bought them, he got to choose who wore what- and **He** was okay with that because **He** loved Gerard.

Gerard grinned as he stood at the counter, listening to the water bubble and boil as he closed his eyes, feeling **His** strong arms wrap around Gerard's waist and leaving a warm kiss at the nape of his neck. **His** thumb was stroking soft circles into Gerard's hip, and Gerard groaned at the feeling of **His** arousal press against the back of Gerard's ass.

"Hmm" the redhead purred, pressing back further into **His** touch, and rocking his ass back lightly. "Fuck, I missed you so much" he panted, leaning his head back and into the crook of His neck, "had such a stressful day." **He** grunted softly, as if to say it was evident, dragging a firm hand up Gerard's shirt, then back down to-

A loud, vicious knocking caused Gerard to jump unsoundly, and whimper when his side came into sharp contact with the counter. The coffee machine had stopped bubbling, and he was standing in his empty apartment with cold skin, and a neck free of kisses. He snarled in irritation, feeling hot tears brim his eyes, and started towards the front door with a leisurely pace; whoever had taken their time to burden him could freeze for all he cared.

Another vicious cycle of knocking sounded throughout the apartment, hurried and somewhat relentless. The artist's socked feet quickened againt the parquet, as he spew out a litany of disgruntled curses. "Fuckin' wait!" he snapped, thankful when the knocking came to an abrupt halt.

He grumbled irritably when he'd remembered that Mikey had been pestering him about calling someone over to 'install a peephole', were the words Mikey had used, to which Gerard had argued that he rarely had any visitors so there was no need. Honestly, his life had been so melancholy as of late, that he wasn't particularly worried about being shanked to his death by a local thug on his doorstep on a late winters evening.

Sliding the latch arms through their many familiar slots (for what he lacked in peephole, he made up for in locks, okay?), he chose to ignore the bristled feeling scurrying up his spine, like fire ants nibbling at his skin, and pulled the door open with a swift tug.

"Hello beautiful" came the cheery response, as the owner shouldered his way past, effortlessly ignoring the artist's panciked sob. "You took yer' sweet fuckin time openin the door, baby."

"What the fuck are you doing at my apartment?!" Gerard shrilled, his voice croaking in his panicked frenzy. "P- please, I don't want to die." He shrinked back towards the door, blurs of Mr Camacho's beaten face flashing behind his eyelids. "I have money, I just-"

"You think i'm here for yer' money?" the intruder cocked an eyebrow, "I ain't here for yer' money." The intruder took in his surroundings, slinking over to the couch as he did so, then nestled into it as though him and Gerard were the best of friends. "Can't I pay you a visit, eh? After what I did for ya' and all."

The redhead narrowed his eyes, suddenly flaring up like a hot flame, "I didnt ask you to do that! I knew it was you!" he flared, balling his fists.

"You seem upset? Did I do somethin'?"

Was this man serious? Did he take Gerard for a fool? He'd practically beaten his boss until he was unrecognisable, and now he was sashaying into his home like what he'd done was perfectly normal.

"D-did you what?" the artist shook his head in disbelief. "You almost KILLED him!"

"Wasn't that the goal, doll?" the shorter of the two drawled, sprawling his arm over the head of the couch. "Don't be actin' so surprised, doll. You shoulda been ready for all this-" he waved his other tattooed hand around in a wild gesture, "chaos" he finally settled on with a toothy grin.

"Look," the rehead stumbled forward hesitantly, stopping when the shorter man's grin widened expectantly, "I don't know who you are but I'm gonna have to contact the police or something b-because, I just, you hurt him and he thinks it's me a-and I-"

A deep, whirring noise stunned the taller of the two, but the other just quirked an eyebrow as his eyes darted to the small, vibrating cellular device on the coffee table beside his feet.

Ignoring the faint path of pink that flourished across his features in a hot blush, Gerard stumbled over and swiped his phone off the coffee table, immediately settling away from the attractive pschopath, who had now taken to openly eyeing his crotch area without any embarrassment. Swiping the green circle to the left hastily after spotting 'Moikey' in large, bold letters brandishing the screen, Gerard breathed a shakey 'Mikey' into the receiver as the intruder continued to gaze downwards.

"Gee what- hey man, don't fucking touch that- what the fuck- I said don't-" an expensive sounding shatter sounded through the other end. "What the fuck, Gee!"

"Mikes? Mikes, can you come over or someth-"

"Gerard why the fuck are the goddamn- don't throw my shit, man! Why are the- the fuckin' CIA in my goddamn apartment Gee!" Came the garbled demand, followed by disgruntled yelling, "Gerard what have you done!"

The redhead looked at the man ahead of him, completely aghast and trying to comprehend what was happening. "Mikey! I don't- I didnt do anything!"

"Yeah, well they're asking for you! What did you do and more importantly" another chorus of muffled shouting and curses, "why the fuck are they in my apartment!"

Gerard paced frantically, glancing at the shorter man every so often. "Mikey" he whimpered as the line went dead. "Who are you?" he sneered, "and why are there men in my brother's apartment!"

The man's face paled suddenly, and he was silent for a blistering moment, before a look of bottled rage graced his once carefree features. "Brother? They went to yer' brother?" he snarled, standing to full height and squaring his shoulders. He wiped a hand over his face and what appeared to be a combination of both outrage and embarrassment.

It was strange. The man who had once come off as nonchalant and smug, had now morphed into someone far more menacing and intimidating.

"Gerard Way" the man drawled, puffing his chest and striding forward till he was but inches away from the petrified artist, "I, am Frank Anthony Iero Jr. and I am leader of the Cosa Nostra. My humblest apologies for the mix up, it appears my men have made a slight error as to which 'Way' I am in seek of assistance of." He finished, squaring off his jaw as he outstretched his hand and wriggled his fingers slightly when he'd noticed that the taller of the two hadn't moved.

Gerard still hadn't moved, nor had he even given himself time to debate whether or not Evan from finance had just gone a little too far with his 'practical jokes' this time.

So, he did the only thing he could, and made a beeline for the front door, mobile phone gripped tight in his hand.


	5. A good eye for good architecture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...and I do apologise if you're a meat eater, my dear, but I will not be allowing any dead animals into my home."

"Gerard, I wouldn't leave if I were you" the man, now dubbed 'Frank' chided softly, "I assumed you were far more intelligent than I gave you credit for."

Despite the condescending tone of Frank's voice, the artist continued, slipping his converse on with little to no effort, and hurriedly pulled the door open- only to barge straight into something sturdy, albeit warm and cotton-like.

"Ah, I see you've just met Robert" Frank chirped from behind him, placing a hand on the artist's thin shoulder in a somewhat dominant manner, "he'll be escorting us both back to the manor- don't be alarmed!" Frank chuckled fondly, "he's really very sweet, if you play your cards right."

It was difficult to take everything in, what with how it felt like his stomach had shrunk and squeezed itself through and out his asshole, landing in a gruesome pile between his legs. The 250lb block of pale flesh that stood solid between himself and the free world, wore a sleek fitting suit, complete with tie and all, and wore a thick hood of ginger hair on what Gerard would describe as one big ol' head. All in all, he was fucking terrifying, what with the furrowed brows and an accompanying lip ring.

Glancing once at the shorter, apparently far more hench than he'd once appeared to be, tattooed punk, then chancing another at the burly ginger stood at the door like a barricade, Gerard shoved past the latter with a shaky breath. He'd only made it two steps before feeling his feet lose all contact with the ground, and squeaked when he was thrown over what he assumed was Robert's shoulder- not that he'd have a fucking clue, as he refused to open his eyes.

"Tsk tsk, Mr Way, that's no way to treat a guest! It was honestly not my intention to ah, take possession of your fine self against your will" Frank's voice sounded with a telling sigh, " no matter" he continued, "you can't win them all."

***

He'd been sitting in this sleek Rolls Royce for over an hour, and he'd lost track of whereabouts they were heading around fourty minutes ago. It was erily silent, with both himself and Frank sat facing the driver, and good ol' Robert sitting ahead of him, occasionally giving him the stink eye.

"Where are we going?" Gerard had managed after half hour, turning his head to see Frank already looking directly at him. "I'm assuming you're not gonna gut me, seeing as Brother Bear over there hasn't knocked me out yet."

"It's Robert" the human boulder snarled menacingly.

"Yeah whatever, snowflake" he batted a hand toward him, not taking his eyes off a now very amused Frank and ignoring the growl he got in response, "so you gonna tell me where you're taking me, or what?"

Gerard had no idea where this new found confidence had come from, but he was hoping it was doing the trick in making it seem like he wasn't two seconds away from curling in on himself and crying like the diva he was.

Frank looked as though he were about to say something, but his eyes flicked just over Gerard's shoulder and out the window, and with a smug curl of his lips, muttered a brief "you're about to find out."

At the sound of a clamorous creak, the redhead whipped around to the window as the vehicle slowed as it passed through two very large, very expensive looking gates- complete with intricate swirls of steel and gold. Despite the path of tanned gravel beneath them, the car didn't jump or shake- it just continued towards what could only be described as 'what old man do I have to fuck to get this kind of inheritance?'.

"I- what?" Gerard whispered in awe, gazing up at the sculpture. Was this thing even habitable?

"I'm flattered at how lost for words you are at the sight of my home, beautiful" a voice that could only be Frank's poked and prodded at the muffled mess that was Gerard's mind.

It was extraordinary; the baroque façade stood breathtakingly beautiful, framed by skeletal trees that were crowned in a rich auburn despite the weather. It loomed over them proudly, the marble stairs leading up to a set of extravagant mahogany doors, were trimmed with gold, as were the windows. Many of the windows were awake with light, occasionally flickering as shadows of its inhabitants passed in a blur; beside the front doors, were a set of endless marble pillars, extending high until they curled out into a patio roof.

You get the gist, this shit was expensive. And big. It was fucking massive.

"You live here?!" Gerard squeaked, his arms flailing around in disbelief as he felt the shorter man guide him forward by his waist.

"Indeed I do Gerard, and you will too for a short while" Frank grinned, sending a rehearsed nod towards the two large men stood on either side of the entrance. The three- Franklin, Gerard, and Robert- paused, as the two pushed the doors open with little to no effort.

The inside was just as elegant as the outside; Gerard had been expecting a Tardis effect, where the outside was just a façade and the inside was something entirely different- but boy was he wrong.

The inside carried a similar baroque style, however there was far less gold and quite a bit more marble; a concoction of crystallised diamonds directed light towards every corner of the entry hall, extended from the ceiling. The walls flaunted pastel pinks and rich reds, and adorned a set of frames that were too far away to distinguish what was being advertised. This was obviously far from what Frank's home had to offer.

"You'll be staying here for the majority of your stay, seeing as the majority of your work will take place just down the hall, on the second floor." Frank sliced straight through his train of though. "As for meals, they will be provided by our head chef Raymond and I do apologise if you're a meat eater, my dear, but I will not be allowing any dead animals into my home. If you wish to bring any items from ho-"

"Okay hold on, hold on, I'm not staying here."

Frank quirked an eyebrow.

"You- you've basically kidnapped me! What the fuck do you even want?" The artist screeched, earning a couple of worrisome stares from the supposed staff, who he'd only just noticed were walking past. "I'm not staying here, I'm calling the police and I'm going home!"

"Ah, that won't be a possibility" came the airy response.

"Oh yes it will be, I'm calling them right now" he nodded firmly, patting his hands over his front and back pockets before coming to a halt. "Where is my goddamn phone!"

"Oh, we've disposed of that for you. You won't be needing it, and if you require another I'll be happy to provide-"

"You threw away my fucking phone?!"

"Well yes, we don't exactly need police stumbling into this sort of business."

"But-"

"Now if you'd come with me, I'd like to inform you as to why you're here" Frank gave a brief flicker of a smile, extending his arm towards Gerard, and the other towards a large doorway.

　

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so this chapter might be a little slow for some of you, but I really want to emphasise just how significant Frank's wealth and status is in this ere' story.   
> I have this crazy fucking habit of losing motivation for a fic, but all the comments I've received so far really motivated me to keep going, lads! Comments are much appreciated aye


	6. Two birds, One stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank has definitely thought this through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ!!!!!!
> 
> Two updates in one week, ye lucky bastards! I'm on a roll!  
> Right, IT'S VERY IMPORTANT that I tell you lot, that I do not want to spoil the fic, so I think it's best that I don't put up every tag. I considered refraining from putting up Mafia!Frank, but I know some readers don't like Mafia!fics.  
> I also need to point out that I have no feckin idea where this story is going, so I'll be adding and taking away certain tags when I see fit. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE keep a lookout for any additions, just in case something that you want to avoid is added to this fic.   
> Cheers!

"Can I get you anything? I have a wonderful selection of Port Wine-"

"Get to the fucking point, Frank" the artist whined, shrinking into the plush leather armchair seated beside an old fireplace, that didn't look a day over two hundred. It wasn't lit, but Gerard had sort of hoped it was, so it would give him something else to stare at- but for now, he just stared at the man sat before him in a chair identical to his own. "Just, tell me why I'm here okay? Because I'm starting to think i've done something fuckin' awful."

"What makes you say that?" the other inquired, leaning forward to dig his elbows into his cotton-clad thighs.

"Because no one's telling me why i'm here! If it's such a fuckin' secret, then I must have messed up big time" Gerard huffed.

The two watched each other in an agonizing silence; without realising that the action wouldn't go unoticed, the taller of the two brushed both palms over his jeans to rid of the putrid sweat gathering there from nervousness. Gerard honestly didn't think he could keep this tough guy facade up any longer, and he knew that the moment it broke, he'd be vulnerable at the hands of whoever hated him enough to send him here.

Eventually, the tangible tension was ripped in two.

"Committed many crimes then, Mr Way?"

"Uh" the other gulped, willing the bead of sweat forming on his temple to stand down, and silently cursing when it rolled over his skin to cling on the edge of his jaw. He watched Frank's eyes follow the movement of the drop, and pushed himself to continue, "I stole a library book once, b- but that's about it."

"A library book? Of what genre?"

"I- uh" he swallowed again, "it was u-uh the karma sutra" he stuttered, "but it was for an art project! I swear, I just felt too embarrassed to take it out at the, you know, reception."

"My my, I hadn't pegged you for the raunchy type, Gerard. I'm shocked-"

"It was in the name of art" the artist ground out between clenched teeth, hitting his closed fist against his knee for emphasis.

"If it was such an imperative tool for such a piece, I'm sure you couldve mustered the strength to do anything but steal it" Franklin scoffed, but there was an air of both amusement and mockery surrounding his speech. "No matter, I didn't bring you here to discuss your sexual....reveries. No, I brought you here to talk business, call it a proposition if you will."

"Proposition?"

"Mm" Franklin beamed, leaning back into the leather, his small frame making it appear as though he were sinking right into it, "I would like you to paint me. Well, I suppose it could be a couple of pieces, but just one will suffice I think."

The redhead's eyes widened comically, eyes flickering to silent Bob, who was busy glaring forward into a large bookshelf that sat above Gerard's head. All of a sudden, the artist's lips formed a firm line, and he let out a strained sigh. "I don't do portraits."

"Oh? But when I had asked you back at the gallery, when that vile creature was hounding you, you had told me you did. You wouldn't be _fibbing_ would you, Gerard?" The man asked innocently, tapping his index fingers against the cushioned armrest of the chair when he hadn't recieved a prompt reply.

"Uh, no. Well I do sometimes, but it's honestly whatever Mr Camacho has me pinned up for. I don't usually do uh, freeform or whatever it is" he batted a hand nonchalantly, in a desperate attempt to play off his blatant lie.

"Funny you should say that actually, because the canvas in your bedroom would say otherwise, no?"

Fuck, they'd been through his apartment. Of course they had.

One part of his brain was telling him to give in and take whatever punishment would be dished out to him if he refused, but the other half was screaming at him to take the offer, because he had so much more to live for: late night showings of Jerry Springer, lucky charms, and he guessed he could squeeze Mikey in there somewhere. Of course, he'd have to ask one very detrimental question in order to consider his options.

"So what happens if I say no? Are you going to kill me?"

The other man 'hmm'd lightly, considering the question. He finally settled on his answer, accompanied by a slight curl of the lips "I don't particularly take to killing pretty people, Gerard."

The artist huffed out a shakey sigh of a relief, pressing the back of his wirey head into the chair with a barely audible 'thank God'.

"However in this profession, you just have to make sacrifices I'm afraid, despite what you don't particularly take to."

***

"Leave me the fuck alone you bastards, what kinda government does this to people!?"

A hearty guffaw sounded from his right, but he honestly couldn't be certain, since his thin framed glasses had been sloppily replaced with an old rag.

"The same government that corrupts our youth and hides aliens in the desert." The voice finished with a throaty chuckle.

***

Frank had left Gerard to his own devices, where he sat atop his temporary bedsheets that were admittedly, the most comfortable sheets he'd ever come into contact with. They were crimon, intense and a stark contrast against the black four poster bed frame. The two parallel walls- the one by the door and the other by the window- were just as dark as the bed frame, whereas the other two were a frosty white. A glossy dresser, adorning a set of classy draws and a rounded mirror- again, darker than hell itself- was pushed against the light wall, beside the on suite bathroom he'd been given the key to.

The decor heavily contradicted the architectural workings of the exterior of the mansion, as did many of the other rooms that he'd been invited to explore.

It was, arguably, the most exciting thing that had ever happened to it him, even though he was most likely to have a bullet shoot through the back of his skull after Frank would come to realise that he simply couldn't create anything under these conditions; he was exhausted, and terrified, and as he gazed around the room, he knew he couldn't create anything remotely close to whatever he was being asked to.

Of course, a part of him that hid away, tucked far beneath all of his worries, sexual frustrations, and missed dentist appointments, was a bitter excitement that he swallowed down guiltily. His brother was God knows where, the light in his kitchen was still on meaning bad news for his bills, not to mention how he'd been forcefully taken against his will by a gorgeous tattooed millionaire, claiming to lead the American-Italian Mafia.

Why was he.... _enjoying_ this?

He suddenly remembered what Frank had said earlier, just before he'd left Gerard to his own thoughts:

**_"If you'd like to join me for dinner for further information about your work, please do come down. I'd like to speak with you some more."_ **

Glaring up at the door beneath his eyelashes, the artist ran a shakey hand through the stark red tresses that sat ontop of his head like a wild halo of candyfloss, and took a deep inhale before pushing himself up and out into the hall.

Remembering the staircase that curled gracefully down toward the bottom to his right, Gerard had only made it down halfway before he'd heard a set of obnoxious whispers eminating from what he guessed was the dining room. Easing his way down as quietly as he could, he paused at the bottom of the staircase and strained his ears.

"C'mon Frankie, y'know this ain't possible, man. Yer' just gotta do shit the old fashion way" a gruff, yet earnest voice pleaded. "I don't wanna see you go down for this shit."

"I ain't gonna go down for shit, Brian, fucking hell" came the response, who Gerard immediately recognised as Frank's, but he'd gone back to the the thick Jersey accent he'd had when he'd first met Gerard. Gerard had decided he liked this Frank better.

"Eh" the other voice responded, dubbed 'Brian', "yer' can't mess with tradtion Frank, even if yer' are the fucking head of this- this business."

"I fuckin' know, alright! But I ain't gonna produce no boy if I can't get it up at the sight of a woman's- a woman's..." he trailed off.

"Pussy?" the voice, Brian, finished for him.

"Ah!" the boss cried, "that fuckin' word. Look Bri, rules say I've gotta marry by 25 and I ain't getting any younger. There ain't no rules about when I gotta have a kid though, right?"

"Where you goin' with this, Frankie" came the exasperated sigh.

"Right, rules say I've gotta marry by 25, get myself a son to take over when I'm old n' grey, yeah?" He spoke slow, earning a muffled 'yeah I got that' from the other. "Okay, but nowhere does it say I gotta marry a girl and have a kid with er' by a certain age."

"But you still gotta marry, Frankie boy. And you're 25 in a month, man."

"Well yeah, talk about statin' the obvious."

"So you gotta month to get married, and yer' gettin' yer' fuckin' _portrait_ done. As yer' advisor Frank, I gotta remind you of yer' priorities."

A hearty chuckle ricocheted through the dining room and out into the foyer.

"Think of it as killin' two birds with one stone."


End file.
